Not a romance, but war
by Fyrsil
Summary: Oneshot telling the story of Canada and Prussia's first meeting. Not at all romantic, though if anyone wants I can write a followup a few years later about when they meet after the war. Just kindly send me a message.


**I hope you enjoy this oneshot I wrote. It is my theory of Canada's and Prussia's first meeting during D-day when the Canada, America and Britain entered the coast of German occupied France in a final push against the axis. Sorry if any informations is correct, my history IB is next year so all I have is existing knowledge and research. Thank you for reading~ (Also whatever happens to the human nations is not always affected by the happenings of the battle) ^^**

Prussia can't remember the first time he died, being it centuries ago; pitiful centuries a bounty of hardship and pain and war and a time when a nation could die as soon as his wounds were healed from the last battle. When The Holy Roman empire rose and fell, when he fought endless battles to simply stay alive and when he fought endless battles to kill others and steal their land…

His history had been one of friendship and betrayal, his closest friends, two so dear to him, growing closer between themselves as the decades grew on and their governments combined. How strange it is, he though, blowing the matted white-turned-grey locks from his eyes, as the wind ruffled his smart military uniform tattered from combat, that even though he can't remember the first time an enemy doubtlessly slipped a beautiful knife into his heart, he can remember so lucidly hiding behind those god damned rose rushes, the scent of perfume and grass on the light spring air, as Austria took the feminine form of Hungary in his arms and kissed her.

Damn Austria for winning over their only friend even after imprisoning her and forcing her to be the lady she wasn't. Damn Hungary for forgetting those blissful androgynous days they had spent as children, before even discovering what sex was, roaming the untamed forests of the land, oblivious to civilisation.

But maybe, maybe now, gazing into the soft violet eyes that even amongst the turmoil of shock, pain and betrayal still held and beauty and innocence, tender like a child's and soft like a lovers, he can remember how it felt, looking up at a faceless enemy who hurt him for doing nothing wrong. Now he was the faceless enemy. And the man beneath him the shy youth Prussia had once been . And Prussia was the evil one.

It was a wake up call; a revelation. All too late, he drew the knife from his enemies flesh, stabbed clumsily in the spur of the moment so that it was fatal but slow and painful. The boy winced, battling the tears in his eyes as he clutched at his chest, white fingers scrabbling desperately, clutching for purchase on reality as the world spun lucidly in and out of his vision, an underwater mass of confusion.

Oh, how young Prussia's opponent truly was, how nameless and significant that it felt like a sin not to have asked his name before, 'what are you called; what should I call you?' But all that came out was a harsh, "who are you?" As the albino's thin hands clutched threateningly at the muddied and bloodied fabric of the man's coat.

"Who are you?" He repeated, in French this time, and the man's eyes lit up with understanding and a fire that should have been impossible for one whose life's blood was pooling in the dirt beneath him.

"I'm Canada," he spat back with more venom that Prussia had expected, shocking him so much that he shook that prone form, drawing an involuntary whimper that contrasted his vigour. Yet still he continued, in a rasping, weak voice, "I am Canada, and I am a British soil, former French colony, and you have invaded my father's land and killed the men of my other father mercilessly. Haw dare you, how dare-" He was cut off by the blood that choked in his throat, and finally the pools in his eyes erupted and the tears overflowed, trailing snail's tracks down grimy cheeks.

So this was the 'Canada' Francis had spoken so enthusiastically about before the war, back when they had been friends and Prussia hadn't asserted his dominance over his brother by everything but blood. This 'Canada', who had been but a boy the only time Prussia had saw him, a tiny thing still fat from childhood, yet with the promising awkwardness that spoke of teenager-hood. So, his land and people had developed enough for that body to follow, surpassing puberty it looked like, by the sinewy muscle he felt beneath his fingers and the squareness of his jaw, so strong yet surprisingly feminine in an odd way.

It felt strange to be faced with such a young nation; a nation a similar age to his brother. They were both so different, that was for sure, but one thing that connected them was certain: both had been born in this difficult, Godforsaken time that even the nations of olde struggled to keep up with. Both were surely destined to a future of a modern age, surpassing those too old and traditional to keep up. Nations like him.

Germany, Prussia's dear little brother, has committed evil unimaginable to many. Born from corruption his mind was confused and he was polluted by the stifling propaganda that told ugly lies about their nation and the world. He had mercilessly killed humans and nations alike, and yet none of this was his fault. If Germany – if Ludwig – wasn't fated to die, how come Prussia was kneeling on the wheezing chest of a nation a baby compared to himself, young blood on his hands and youthful innocence torn relentlessly away.

One moment he was slowly releasing his grip on the younger, the next he became aware of the agony that was blooming in his side, like a rose wrong way up, thorns pricking his hand instead of the sweet flower that they were loved for. The man looked down, thin, war-beaten frame shaking with effort. Indeed, his side had become something beautiful, the black of his uniform stained with a crimson that turned maroon, fading into nothingness like ink on a page. It painted away his sins and the horrors he had committed; a just punishment, surely.

The nation's red eyes darted to the face of his attacker again, and instead of the evil and twisted joy he had been expecting he only saw the face of a terrified child, a child who had cut a worm in half and was suddenly aware of their uncontrollable mortal power, that their human body was capable of such deadly destruction. Not the eyes of a killer, but of one who had never killed before. Surely.

The man beneath him tried in vain to drag his mangled body from the living corps above him, only for his arms to give out and his heart a second later, finally succumbing to the first of many deaths in his immortal life. Prussia regarded the dead for for a moment with macabre fascination, well aware that he has caused those purple eyes to close and that pale skin to tint grey. Then, shuddering in a soul wrenching pain, he slumped lifelessly down, arms thrown over Canada as if in a protective embrace.

Protecting the young man from the outside world, even when the true enemy was himself.

'I'm sorry…"

Germany found his brother after hours of searching. The man was still vulnerable from childhood, grown too quickly and thrown into this world amass with war and politics, all of it daunting and scary, his own ruler's teaching providing welcome security from it all. Finally, after his frantic search, he found his brother too late, but a mottled corpse lay in the mud and clay, the blood of him and the enemy indistinguishable from the dirt.

In fury, then man focused on the least terrifying body of the matter: the Canadian – no, that was Canada, a fellow nation sent to fight here – obviously slaughtered by his brother's hand. He grabbed the man's arm, yanking it away and the body following limply, like a broken doll. The shoulder was twisted at an odd angle and the elbow cracked with the brute force, but to hell if Germany cared, not after what the foreign, unknown nation had done to his family, spilling the blood of Germany's own.

Then, abandoning the body where it lay twisted and fragile, he went to his brother's side, kneeling in the blood and mud, finally allowing tears to fall. There would be no evidence of his weakness, not as night began to fall. Perhaps it was the sound of his brother's sobs, of the feeling of tears on his cheek, but something in Prussia's brotherly instinct urged him to wake prematurely, and he did so, eyes cracking open like stained glass, staring into his brother's vulnerable ones.

"It's okay," he whispered, "I'm okay." And he was. God he was, after dying so many times in his life this felt like nothing and the weight of the guilt was heavier than the fatigue in his blood-starved limbs.

"We have to get out of here," Germany reminded him urgently, picking the man half up under his arms, making the albino wince as his wounds closed in on itself. He refrained from cursing – just – and sat painfully up, surveying the broken land surrounding them, the once fertile fields but a barren wet dessert, the village crumpled like paper, long abandoned of the families and merchants that had once called it their homes. 'I'm so sorry, Francis, but I must…'

Their leader's words never made sense, but drove the masses to a brainless frenzy, willing to carry out any atrocity in the name of the new land Germany, and Prussia followed along like the white-black sheep for the sole purpose of protecting his brother. At least, that is how it had been at the start. As nations usually did in war, his sanity had been carelessly discarded somewhere along the line so that he became capable of committing crimes against humanity and God.

As he stood up, arm slung limply over his brother's broad shoulders, he spared a glance at the nation lying dead in the mud, body, although ugly and mangled, still looking like that of a sleeping being: peaceful, kind, restful and gentle.

And this damned war – his pitiful being – had been the one to spoil that innocence; the innocence of a nation whose life had been unbroken as of yet, who didn't know the unique pain of death. How poetic, in a vulgar, twisted way.

France was going to kill him, if he hadn't been the one to slaughter his friend already. Maybe France would kill him in another life.

"Do we take it prisoner? Canada, I mean?" Germany asked softly, in a breath too soft that it hid the violence of the suggestion.

"What is the use?"

"We are losing, Prussia. I don't want this to all be for nothing."

"Then let it go," Prussia said, pulling away with great excursion, red eyes meeting disturbed blue, "if we have lost, then don't give our enemies more reasons to associate us with grief. There is a time after war, and it is a time that we must befriend those we killed. That is the way of nations."

He thought for a moment, red eyes closing briefly in grief, "You are so human right now, brother. The first war is always the hardest to pass. But you will one day look at America as your ally and England as your friend. One day, you will realise what a good support France can be and how you can always rely on Spain to cheer you up no matter what. You will see China as more than Japan's bothersome brother, and even Russia, damn him, has redeeming qualities.

"We are all the same, my dear brother," Prussia had tears in his eyes now, emotional despite his strength, "we are all humans gone wrong. Humans forced to be so much more, until we are broken again and again, until we love stronger than any other, hate stronger than the devil.

"Life is more than this one war." The man gathered his breath, dashing the tears away angrily while his large framed companion stood aside in horror, seeing the barrier his brother had so valiantly maintained fall away piece by piece.

And to think, he had seen the dead man at his feet as a tactical lump of meat just a minute ago.

"Let's go," Germany said quietly – resignedly. He took Prussia's weight again, helping along the wounded man, step by step further from Canada, the slaughtered nation. Neither looked back but a mind's eye's glance.


End file.
